


Should've Known Better

by erelis



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4807976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erelis/pseuds/erelis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't pay to be a templar in Kirkwall. It's just one shitshow after another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Should've Known Better

Standing near the bow of the boat and breathing in the salty tang of the air, Cullen watched as the Gallows and its endless slew of problems drew ever closer. What he wanted more than anything once he got back was to take off his armor and get a bath, not just to wash off the dirt and sweat of the day, but to soak some of the aches in his muscles away in the hot, steaming water. It was a fool’s hope, he knew, doomed from the moment it crossed his mind as a reward for his aggravating day. However much he might long for it, his mundane fantasy would be interrupted as soon as he stepped onto the docks and whatever templar waiting there for him was able to corner him with the latest list of issues that had arisen in his absence. But he still took a modicum of pleasure in the imagining of it nonetheless.

In the aftermath of the rebellion, he—and everyone else in Kirkwall—had to take pleasure in whatever fleeting moments presented themselves. Otherwise, there was none to be had at all.

Too soon, the boat reached its destination and with a nod to its captain, Cullen disembarked onto the battered docks. Though it hadn’t seen the fighting the rest of the Gallows had, there had been so much of it that some small pockets of combat had broken out down there despite the templars’ best efforts to contain it. The blood was long gone; that and the bodies that had shed it had been the first to be cleaned up once the Champion and his entourage had departed. But there were still a smattering of scorch marks here and there, like someone’s poor attempt to map where the fireballs and lightning bolts had missed their targets, and some of the paving stones were cracked and broken beneath his boots.

One thing at a time, however. Clearing away the rubble and debris had taken priority over cosmetic repairs, and before all of that was the Order’s duty to the people. Meredith might have lost sight of it in the clutches of her paranoid delusions, some of the templars might have set it aside in favor of indulging in cruelty, and the majority of the populace might have forgotten it entirely in the wake of the chaos, but Cullen hadn’t. And neither had what now consisted of the highest ranking templars in Kirkwall. Since the templars were partially responsible for the catastrophe that had befallen the city, it was their responsibility to rebuild, both the infrastructure of Kirkwall itself and the peoples’ faith in the Order.

That meant putting out fires, figuratively and literally, when they broke out. It meant patrolling the streets with the guard to discourage looting and worse crimes. It meant hunting down legitimate blood mages and putting down any demons that they unleashed on the world. It meant aiding in reconstruction efforts and weeding out the corruption in its ranks. It meant spending more time out of the Gallows than in it, serving the Maker’s people instead of some self-important, tyrannical notion of the Order’s power. 

“Knight-Captain, ser,” a voice called, drawing Cullen’s gaze away from a survey of the damaged paving stones to the templar standing at attention a dozen paces ahead of him. The templar, a human named Therond who’d been recently promoted, saluted, right fist touching his breastplate over his heart.

Cullen returned it immediately. “At ease, Knight-Corporal.” Already, the image of the tub, steam rising in wisps from the water, faded from his mind. “What have you to report?”

Judging from the look of the man—calm and composed, if perhaps a little uncomfortable in the late afternoon heat—nothing devastating had occurred. Had anyone been killed, turned into an abomination, or fallen to blood magic, he likely would have appeared somewhat more harried. Or at the very least, concerned about his commanding officer’s reaction to the news.

Therond fell into step beside him, gait respectfully measured. “Knight-Lieutenant Gavyn would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

The urge to sigh in irritation was nearly overwhelming, but Cullen bit it back, knowing that it would do no good. “What is it now?” Maker, but he hoped another templar hadn’t been caught harassing the remaining mages again. He’d thought all of Alrik’s ilk had been rooted out in the intervening weeks since Meredith’s death, but it seemed like every time he thought the Gallows free of such perversions and began to breathe easier, another templar was caught attempting to take liberties with the mages who'd elected to seek protection from the chaos in the city, and across Thedas, with their former jailers. 

Beside him, Therond grimaced in sympathy. Meredith would have reprimanded him for showing such emotion. Cullen, on the other hand, didn’t say a word. “He didn’t tell me, ser. Just said he needed to speak with you when you returned to the Gallows.”

There was no putting it off. If he tried and Gavyn caught wind of it, he’d have to listen to a diatribe of accusations insinuating that he wasn’t as free of Meredith’s corrupting influence as he claimed and might need to be removed from command after all. Cullen couldn’t blame the man for his distrust, he _had_ supported Meredith long after he should have retracted his loyalty and denounced her, but it was getting tiresome. During that fateful night, with the ash that had once been the Chantry still falling from the sky, he’d been the only templar to draw his blade against her. And after spending an entire afternoon verbally sparring with the Provisional Viscount, he simply wasn’t in the mood to placate a suspicious templar, whether the man had justification for his wariness or not.

“All right.” As they moved through the gate into the courtyard, Cullen jerked his chin in the direction of his office. “Send him to my office.” After a moment’s pause, in which he rather accurately envisioned Gavyn storming into his office before he’d made it behind his desk, he added, “ Give me twenty minutes to get ready first, would you?”

The Knight-Corporal nodded. “Yes, ser.”

An ache was building behind his eyes and tension was radiating up from the tight muscles of his neck. Cullen’s fingers itched to massage it, or at least rub at his forehead in the hope of staving off a headache, but he kept his hands at his side. Once he was safely ensconced in the privacy of his office, he could give in to temptation. For now, he had an image to uphold. Or so he’d been told, at length and on repetition, earlier today.

With nothing more to add, and no further reports forthcoming, Cullen nodded to his subordinate. “Dismissed, Therond.”

The man nodded once, deeply enough to hint at being a bow, and turned to go deliver the message to the Knight-Lieutenant. For a moment, Cullen remained where he stood, watching him go, before he shook himself out of it. Whatever Gavyn wanted, it would no doubt lead to a substantial amount of aggravation. What few minutes of peace remaining to him were quickly slipping away, which meant that now really wasn’t the time to dawdle. Taking a deep breath, Cullen veered away from the main gate and went around to the side entrance.

There were less people in this part of the Gallows, making the walk to his office both quicker and less likely to be interrupted. He nodded to the few templars he passed, but whether it was the impassive expression on his face or the swift pace he had set, no one attempted to hail him to make conversation. And that suited Cullen just fine. It meant that he reached his destination with plenty of time to spare before his meeting. If he breathed a sigh of relief after he walked in and shut the door, that was between him, the Maker, and the mismatched collection of furniture and books that filled the room.

It was Meredith’s old office, an unfortunate reality that didn’t really sit that well with Cullen. The less he had to do with the trappings of his former commander, the happier he was. But using it was better than the alternative. After everything that had happened over the last decade, it seemed tasteless to move into the First Enchanter’s office. Not only that, but since Orsino had revealed himself to be a blood mage, Cullen didn’t entirely trust that the room where the elf had spent so much of his time was free of dangerous spells. The templars had been over it, along with a few of the mages who had chosen to remain, but it wouldn’t surprise him in the least to find that a cleverly concealed spell lingered behind, waiting to do harm to anyone foolish enough to enter the space.

A superstitious fear, no doubt, and one that he knew he shouldn’t humor, yet it persisted and Cullen in turn did his level best to avoid the place.

Besides, he _was_ acting in the capacity of the Knight-Commander, even if he didn’t hold the title. It would have looked strange if he’d refused to use the office that came with the position. And whatever his personal feelings, it wouldn’t do to cast more doubt on the leadership of the Order by behaving like a ridiculous idiot.

Crossing to the chair positioned behind the desk, Cullen sank down into it with a soft clatter of armor. It wasn’t the most comfortable way to sit, but since he was still on duty—and might need to charge out to confront some new monstrosity in the next half hour—he couldn’t deem it appropriate to take the armor off. His earlier daydream about a tub full of steaming water seemed further away than ever. There was a large stack of papers on his desk that he knew he ought to make a stab at going through: requisition requests, reports, letters of condemnation and recommendation both, duty rosters. Some merely needed his signature. Others required a more in-depth perusal. He didn’t attend to any of them, just propped his elbows on the top of the desk, leaned his forehead into his hands, and closed his eyes.

There wasn’t enough time to actually nap, but he appreciated the occasion to do nothing and just _rest_ in relative peace. As it turned out, it was the last chance he had to do so for quite a while.

In retrospect, he probably should have seen it coming. The signs had been there, remarkably subtler than he would have expected, and it was because they were so easily interpreted as something they weren’t that he’d been able to ignore them. Not willfully. That would have been a dereliction of duty. But _hopefully._ Optimistically. Because despite all of his experiences after having been accepted into the Order, there was a spark of optimism deeply buried within him that had yet to be extinguished. And because Cullen believed in second chances. He’d been offered one himself, after a fashion. It would have been hypocritical and ungrateful to deny another that same opportunity.

Still, when all was said and done, he couldn’t stop blaming himself. If he’d been more vigilant, less trusting, more suspicious… The mores and lesses, the what ifs and maybes piled up until they threatened to suffocate him, more doubt and guilt piled on top of what Meredith had left behind.

Twenty minutes in meditative, unthinking quiet passed too quickly.

A knock at the door brought him out of it. Cullen opened his eyes, straightened up, and sat back in his chair, composing himself to present the image of the competent, untiring Knight-Captain everyone expected him to be. He even shuffled a few of the papers around and picked up a quill for the sake of appearances.

“Enter.”

The door swung open, admitting Knight-Lieutenant Gavyn. He was an older man, a friend of the late Emeric, and a well-respected templar. He hadn’t forgotten his duty, had never abused the mages in his care, and while he respected magic and kept a keen watch for its misuse, he did not fear it as so many others did. He also didn’t like Cullen very much; unsurprisingly, really, since he continued to think of him as Meredith’s toady and watch him for any equally suspicious, erratic behavior.

As ever, Cullen was happy to avoid living down to his expectations.

“Knight-Captain,” Gavyn greeted him with a nod and came to stand at attention before his desk. His personal opinion of Cullen notwithstanding, he never failed to treat him with respect when on duty and addressing him in the capacity of his commanding officer.

“Knight-Lieutenant.” Cullen returned the nod with one of his own and set the quill down, folding his hands one over the other atop the desk. “Therond tells me you have something you wish to discuss.” He glanced toward the empty chair within reach of the man. “Would you care to sit down?”

Gavyn shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, ser.” Not one to mince words, especially with someone he didn’t care all that much for or trust, he got right to the point of his visit. “I wanted to report an unexpected shortage of lyrium in the stores.”

That got Cullen’s attention. “Are you referring to the potions or the templar supply?”

He hoped it was the potions. It would make sense if it was the potions. Mages fleeing the Gallows would have likely stolen some on their way out. Even those who had elected to stay were pilfering them on the side, _just in case_. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but Cullen understood why it was happening and he wasn’t about to authorize anyone to crack down on the situation. Not until tensions had eased and the mages realized that the templars weren’t going to return to the brutality of the previous regime.

He hoped it was the potions, but the sinking feel in his gut and a lifetime’s experience with disappointment told him that Gavyn wouldn’t have come to see him over something as trivial as missing lyrium potions.

“The templar supply, ser.”

Cullen’s lips thinned as he pressed them together, fighting off the frown that was trying to contort his mouth. “How much is missing?”

From the frown Gavyn wasn’t attempting to conceal, the answer was too much. “As of today, an entire case. Ryley first noticed it a week ago during an inventory. The number was only off by a few vials, she thought she’d miscounted, but when she went back the next day, she discovered more were gone. After that, she kept a closer eye on it.”

The urge to rub at his forehead nearly overwhelmed him. Forcing himself to ignore it, Cullen turned the impulse into an irritated sigh. “Why am I only hearing about it now?”

Gavyn didn’t react to his tone and responded evenly. “She wanted to make sure that it wasn’t an administrative error before bothering you with it.”

It made sense. Cullen was dimly grateful for her thoughtfulness, even as he felt the steadily increasing tension winding into a knot at the back of his neck. A headache was sure to follow. There would be no help for it now. “Are there any suspects?”

That it was being stolen was a given. They didn’t need to discuss possible reasons for its disappearance. An entire case of lyrium didn’t go missing by accident. Not when the stuff was such a necessary component to their daily lives and so damnably difficult to acquire in sufficient quantities.

“None, ser.” Gavyn’s stoic demeanor cracked then and Cullen got a glimpse of the man’s own annoyance. Not at him for once, thank the Maker, but at Gavyn’s own lack of answers as to the identity of the culprit. Or culprits. To make off with so much lyrium in such a short time without raising suspicion pointed to an operation undertaken by more than one templar. “Nothing was left behind that could be traced back to anyone and discreet inquiries into any suspicious behavior witnessed around the storeroom turned up nothing.”

Of course not. That would be too easy. A small, traitorous voice in the back of Cullen’s mind pointed out that it would also be better if it was a group of templars sneaking a bit of extra lyrium, either for their own use or to smuggle out of the Gallows to make a profit on the side. It was the kind of thought that he hated himself for thinking, but considering the alternative, he couldn’t quite help it.

“All right.” He took a deep breath, fingers itching to drag over his face and massage some of the tightness in his muscles away. “Post additional guards around the storeroom for the time being. All shifts. Pick templars you trust. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Gavyn nodded, bringing his right fist to his chest and knocking it once against his breastplate. “At once, ser.”

He gave Cullen another nod, then turned and exited the room as quickly as he’d come in. By the set of his shoulders as he left, it was obvious that he was a man on a mission. One that Cullen knew he would carry out as swiftly and efficiently as possible. The Order really could use more men like him.

Once he was alone, safely ensconced behind the privacy of the closed door, he gave himself a moment to press the heels of his hands to his forehead and scrub at his scalp with his fingertips. There was an answer to the mystery of the missing lyrium, one Cullen had known almost immediately, but he didn’t want to believe it. As if denying it as a possibility made it equally unlikely to have occurred. But the simplest explanation, however undesired, was sometimes more plausible than the most complicated one.

It might have been better if he felt angry or betrayed. And there was a small dose of betrayal in the tangle of emotions that battered at his mind, wanting his attention. But it was rather tiny compared to the abject weariness that had settled its crushing weight on his shoulders. As if the Order didn’t have enough to worry about. As if _he_ didn’t. This was another battle, another _war_ , he didn’t need. He was already fighting enough of them.

There was no help for it. He would have to deal with it. On his terms, if he could. On the Order’s, if he could not, though that was—shamefully—his last resort.

 *     *     *     *     *

After two hours spent signing forms, reading reports, and transferring papers from piles on one side of his desk to the other, Cullen decided to take a break. He hadn’t managed to make much of a dent in the volume of work, though he was honest enough with himself to admit that that was because his heart just wasn’t in it. And it had been a long, trying day. Getting some of it done would have to suffice.

Pushing away from his desk, he rose to his feet and left the office in search of dinner. He’d been so preoccupied with the events of the day that he hadn’t realized how hungry he was. Or that he’d missed lunch, traversing half of Kirkwall and dealing with the Provisional Viscount as he had. He knew it now, his stomach growling like a territorial mabari, and hastened his steps to the dining hall.

On the way there, he passed a group of dusty, sweat-soaked templars who had evidently come in from the training courtyard and were on their way to clean themselves up from their exertions. From the comments he could hear them bandying back and forth, they were in a hurry to get done with it so they could make it to dinner before the kitchen closed for the night and left them to fend for themselves. They nodded to him as they passed, their expressions ranging from simply polite to marginally friendly. Cullen acknowledged their greeting with one of his own, the faintest of smiles upturning one corner of his mouth. It smoothed out when he caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd.

“Samson?” Cullen stopped walking as he called out to him, causing Raleigh to pause as well, and by necessity, the rest of the group. “When you’ve got a moment, I’d like to speak with you in my office.”

The other man dipped his head sharply in acknowledgement. “Yes, ser, Knight-Captain.” It was the look in his eyes more than the immediacy of his agreement that told Cullen that he was going to rush through his ablutions and subsequent dinner to carry out the request.

Not wishing to disrupt his evening, Cullen waved a dismissive hand to forestall the thought before it gained too much traction. “Later, Samson. When you’ve a spare minute. It’s nothing so urgent that I want to intrude on your evening.”

“Of course, ser.”

Nodding in satisfaction, Cullen left the lot of them behind and continued on to the dining hall, the hunger that had accompanied him out of his office now a distant, almost forgotten thing.

*     *     *     *     *

After dinner, Cullen went back to his office. The heap of overdue work seemed to have grown larger in his absence, yet he felt too restless to sit behind the desk and do any of it. Tomorrow, he silently promised both the towering stacks of paper and the guilt that pricked at him for his avoidance. He would get to it tomorrow. In the meantime, there were plenty of other mundane tasks to complete while he waited for the arrival of what he truly hoped would be his last meeting of the day. 

He was standing at the bookcase nearest the door, reorganizing the rows of books shoved haphazardly between the shelves into something that looked a little less like barely contained chaos just for something to do with his hands, when he heard the short rap of knuckles against the wood. He’d left it open on purpose, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he spotted Raleigh hovering in the doorway.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked curiously, still using the carefully cultured tone of agreeability a subordinate typically used to address his superior.

With a murmur of wordless assent, Cullen nodded, gesturing toward the door with one hand as he shelved the book he was still holding with the other. “Close the door, would you?”

Despite wearing his—now clean—armor, Raleigh’s footsteps were relatively quiet as he stepped inside. It was only when the door was closed behind him that he smirked, dropping the deferential tone for a smug drawl. “So it’s gonna be like that, eh?”

Tempted though he was to roll his eyes at the question, Cullen managed to scrape together enough willpower to resist the urge. “I—”

Before he could finish the sentence, Raleigh slipped into his personal space, hooked his fingers in one of the straps securing Cullen’s left pauldron in place, and hauled him forward. Startled out of his train of thought, Cullen’s jaw snapped shut, and before he had the chance to start over, Raleigh’s mouth settled over his own. The kiss was hungry, demanding, and against his better judgment, he didn’t resist when Raleigh parted his lips and deepened it.

He could taste the spices from dinner as Raleigh licked slowly at his tongue; that and the faintest tang from the wine he’d drunk with it. Cullen knew that he should stop this, wrestle control of the moment back, but instead of levering distance between them, he raised his hand, cupped the side of his neck, and gave in to the inevitable. Eyes closing, he shuffled closer, dropping his other hand to Raleigh’s hip, bracketing it for a moment before using his grip to tug himself forward.

Dimly, he was aware of the cool metal of gauntleted fingers sliding around the back of his neck and pressing against his skin, but the heat of Raleigh’s mouth was sufficiently distracting and prevented him from caring about the faint shiver that slithered down his spine. Nor did he realize that he was being backed across the room until he felt the edge of his desk bang none too gently against the back of his thighs.

The sensation, and the accompanying knowledge of what Raleigh was aiming for with that maneuver, jarred Cullen out of the haze of arousal that was starting to blanket his mind. Contrary to what the older man obviously thought—and what Cullen’s body was now hopefully anticipating—a quick, highly inappropriate rendezvous while on duty wasn’t the reason he’d called him into his office. 

Reluctantly breaking the kiss, Cullen leaned back as far as the desk would allow, pressing a hand against Raleigh’s breastplate to hold him off when he started to follow him. His breath came a little harder than normal, giving his voice a slightly breathless quality as he muttered, “Raleigh, please.”

Raleigh grinned, the crooked cocksure grin that always succeeded in sending a pang of lust through him. “Begging already?” If eyebrow waggling had a tone, it would be the one he used now. “You must really want it bad. Long day?”

“That isn’t— _No_ ,” Cullen spluttered, with a noise halfway between a frustrated sigh and a groan of aggravation. From the way Raleigh’s lips quirked higher, he wasn’t terribly convinced that it was a disagreeable sound.

“You sure about that, Cullen?” He nudged his knee forward, sliding it between Cullen’s legs and pressing forward until his thigh rested flush against his groin. “You seem flustered. I can do something about that for you.”

Although he meant it to sound firm, his retort came out as a low growl. “You aren’t helping.”

There was too much armor and padding and fabric in the way to _really_ appreciate the pressure his thigh offered, but it was just enough of a distraction that it threatened to derail Cullen’s duty-bound determination to have this conversation. A suspicious, paranoid part of him wondered if Raleigh already knew the real reason he’d been called into the Knight-Captain’s office and this little display was part of his plan to evade censure. It was, however, a small part and didn’t succeed in convincing Cullen to be wary.

“That’s because you’re still wearing all this armor,” Raleigh was saying, sounding surprisingly reasonable as he plucked at the pauldron strap again.

“I'm on duty.” When he moved to start undoing the strap, Cullen slapped his hand away with a frown of irritation. “So are you. And—”

“Ain’t nothing needing your attention right now except me.”

Cullen blew out a breath in exasperation. “Raleigh.”

“ _Cullen_ ,” he mimicked him, complete with heavy disapproval. A beat later, he dropped the mockery and asked, still as disturbingly logical as before. “Is the world ending?”

“What?” Cullen’s brows knitted in confusion at the question, seemingly apropos to nothing, before comprehension dawned. He made a quiet, disgusted noise deep in his throat. “No, don't be ridiculous.”

Raleigh’s eyebrows rose and his eyes widened, as if Cullen had finally capitulated after an exhaustingly long argument and acknowledged his point. “Then if it ain’t the end of the world, it can wait.”

That was the problem. Cullen wanted it to wait. Not because he wanted to indulge himself in a stolen moment of physical pleasure, though now that he was being offered the opportunity it was certainly a minor temptation niggling at the back of his mind, but because he wanted to put this discussion off for as long as possible. It was unworthy of him, proof perhaps that he might be losing too much of his objectivity where certain matters were concerned, yet he couldn’t banish the dread the thought of broaching this subject with Raleigh engendered in him. No matter what he said, regardless of how diplomatic and calmly neutral he kept his questioning, Raleigh was going to get his back up about it and then things were going to get nasty.

A defensive Raleigh was a petty, spiteful man who lashed out at whoever was convenient. It was never a pleasant experience to be on the sharp end of his cutting tongue and Cullen wasn’t relishing the prospect of getting reacquainted with it tonight. He was too tired; from today, from the last few months, from the nine years he’d spent in Kirkwall, from the entirety of his life since joining the Order, though that thought was one he kept deeply buried where he didn't have to consider _why_ he felt that way. Just once, he wanted to go for more than a couple hours without an ugly conflict rearing its head that he then had to deal with.

Cullen’s face tightened, his expression slipping into the coolly authoritative mask of his position, and he sighed. There was no getting out of this. Not in good conscience, anyway, and he didn't have the leisure to be selfish. “No,” he disagreed, an edge of steel slipping into his voice that brooked no further argument or diversionary tactics. “It really can’t.”

Rolling his eyes, Raleigh dropped his hands and took a step back. It wasn't far enough to be proper, no other templar would stand so close to a superior, but it was a symbolic gesture nonetheless. At least now he was listening. "All right, Cullen," he said finally, folding his arms across his chest. "What'd you wanna see me for, then?"

If there was a correct way to go about this, Cullen didn't know what it was. He wasn't particularly adept at lying and Raleigh had never had patience for protracted dancing around. It was better for both of them if he just cut to the chase.

Half tempted though he was to slide out from between the man and the desk, perhaps go around it and put the piece of furniture between them, Cullen stayed where he was, unwilling to compromise his position by doing something that would read as retreat. "Have you been using my keys?"

Raleigh blinked, obviously caught flatfooted by the question. "What?"

"My keys," Cullen repeated patiently. "Have you been taking them at night?"

_Say no_ , he thought as he looked at him, forcing himself to keep the desperation of the thought off of his face and hating himself for feeling it in the first place. That he had the suspicion at all suggested that he wasn't wrong. _Say no and mean it. For once just prove me wrong._

The smugness was draining out of Raleigh's expression. He could keep his face blank when he wanted to do it, but right now he wasn't making the effort and Cullen could see the subtle signs of wariness taking over as he cottoned on to where this line of questioning was leading. He didn't respond at first, simply tipped his head back and slightly to the side as he eyed him. It was a stance Cullen was familiar with and it didn't bode well for the rest of the conversation. 

It wasn't until the silence had drug on long enough to become uncomfortable that Raleigh finally deigned to break it. "Why're you asking me this?" he asked quietly.

_You know damn well why_ _and you know I know it too._ Transparent attempts to play dumb had always annoyed Cullen. Now, with someone who knew better than to lie to him, it sparked a white-hot flash of anger that he had to bite his tongue against unleashing. When he was sure that it wouldn't leak into his voice, he allowed himself to answer the question.

"Lyrium's been going missing. The—"

Raleigh snorted. "And so it's gotta be me, does it?" His voice turned snide, a hint of anger curling beneath it. "We're all addicts, _Knight-Captain._ I ain't the only one."

"I know you're not. But it's either a group of templars working together to avoid detection or it's someone with a key to the storeroom. There aren't many of those and you're the only person with access to mine."

It pained him to admit it and Raleigh knew it. After all these years, he knew Cullen well enough to know that he tended to take responsibility for things that weren't necessarily his fault and would carry guilt that he never should have picked up in the first place. Stealing anyone's keys was bad enough. Stealing Cullen's would make him accomplice to the theft, even just by proxy and only in Cullen's mind. But it would be the easiest thing to do and Raleigh had ever been a man who took the path of least resistance.

"So what're you accusing me of here?" Raleigh snapped, his eyes narrowing to hostile slits. "Fucking you to steal your keys?"

"What?" That possibility hadn't crossed Cullen's mind. The older man was a lot of things, some of which were quite unsavory as he well knew, but he would not stoop to quite that level of manipulation. He shook his head. "No. I'm asking if you've—"

"And what if I was?"

"Then—" Cullen blinked, startled. He couldn't be insinuating what it sounded like he was saying. He simply couldn't be. Cullen might not be the best at character judgments—he'd chosen to follow Meredith of all idiotic decisions—but he wasn't completely terrible at it either. For all his flaws, Raleigh was at heart a good man. Only a good man would have risked his career as a templar and a steady source of lyrium to help maintain a mage's happiness. "I beg your pardon?"

There was no other word save cruel to describe the smile that cut razor-sharp across Raleigh’s mouth. “Yeah,” he sneered, nodding. “That’s right. You heard me.” He took a step closer, crowding Cullen back against the desk. “What’re you gonna do if I have been playing you? You gonna tell the Order you’ve been playing whore for me while I stole the lyrium right out from under your oblivious, besotted nose?”

If he were to be perfectly honest, Cullen couldn’t say what cut deeper: the suggestion that he’d truly been so blinded by stupidity that he hadn’t realized he’d been nothing more than a means to an end all along or the implication that Raleigh would try to use his personal life against him to put the blame at his feet and discredit him to the rest of the Order. Both stung more than he cared to admit. But he knew that letting it show was playing directly into Raleigh’s hands. He couldn’t show weakness here, couldn’t show that the barbs had pierced him and drawn blood.

He let his eyes narrow at the implied threat, but he stood his ground and looked coldly across the meager distance separating them. “You know the consequences of smuggling lyrium from the Gallows.” It was toeing the line at condescension to spell it out, but Cullen couldn’t quit talk himself out of it. “Arrest. Imprisonment. Then you’ll stripped of your rank—” He didn’t say _again_ , but he knew they both heard it hanging in the space between one word and the next. “—and cast out of the Order in disgrace.”

Beneath the anger so evident in Raleigh’s eyes, Cullen could detect a sliver of fear. Not for the possibility of imprisonment or ejection from the Order, but for the increasing likelihood of being deprived of a reliable supply of lyrium for a second time. It would be back out on the streets of Kirkwall, begging for whatever scraps he could find, and with the climate in the city so intolerant of templars now, he wouldn’t be able to rely on the generosity of stranger. He’d be lucky if someone didn’t try to kill him in his sleep.

And Raleigh knew it. “Might as well execute me and have done with it. You know what it’s like out there.”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you pilfered something that didn’t belong to you,” Cullen shot back, eyes as hard and unyielding as his voice. Whatever his personal feelings, the rules of the Order were clear.

For a long, seemingly endless moment, no one spoke. Raleigh glared at him and Cullen scowled right back. Perhaps he should have done more to get the man treatment for his addiction. Perhaps he should have been less trusting or more vigilant about how easily accessible his keys were. The _could haves_ and _should haves_ were as long as his endless ability to castigate himself, but at the end of the day, it wasn’t _his_ fault. He hadn’t forced Raleigh onto the lyrium, he hadn’t dangled it in front of him or made him false promises. He’d done his duty. He’d done his best to take care of the men and women Meredith’s insanity caused her to abandon.

It might have been the truth, but at the moment, it was far too easy to heap the blame for all of this squarely at his own feet. He had to keep reminding himself not to let the guilt get too firm a grip on him lest he be unable to shake it off.

“You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you?” Raleigh spat harshly, breaking the silence. “You self-righteous little bastard. You’d sell me out to save your own skin.”

The accusation was so ludicrous Cullen couldn’t do anything other than laugh in his face. “Are you listening to yourself? You’re threatening me for reprimanding you for _your_ illegal activities. On top of that, you’re trying to blackmail me into letting you continue.”

It would have been mindboggling that he believed it would work, if Cullen hadn’t known what it felt like to be cut off from the daily draughts and go through withdrawal. That knowledge gave him sympathy for Raleigh’s predicament. There wasn’t enough of it to let him continue to get away with his theft, of course, but it at least gave Cullen the perspective necessary not to take any of this too personally.

“It won’t work.” To emphasize the finality of that declaration, Cullen pushed away from the desk and brushed by Raleigh, unperturbed by his offensive posture and the dangerous glitter of anger in his eyes. He was angry too. Furious, actually, and none of it had to do with the insults he’d been forced to bear since the argument started. Half a step forward away from him and Cullen spun back around, jabbing a finger at the other man’s breastplate. “I vouched for you! Meredith initially refused to reinstate you, told me you were a waste of the Order’s time and resources, but I vouched for you. And _this_ is how you repay my trust?”

Raleigh snorted in derision. “It ain’t always about you, Cullen.”

“No,” he snarled right back. “This isn’t about me. It’s about _you_. It’s about your addiction and your selfish entitlement.” Drawing himself up, Cullen took a deep breath and forced the worst of his anger down. “You _aren’t_ the only templar who has to deal with the withdrawal. We all do. But we don’t trample each other to get an extra draught whenever the edge wears off. We deal with it. We support each other. We don’t bloody lie and steal from one another to make our own lives a little easier. That isn’t what the Order’s about.”

The laughter that burst out of Raleigh was ugly and bitter. “No. That’s not what the Order’s about, is it? It’s about subjugating the mages. Hurting them.” A sharp, humorless smile twisted his mouth. “It’s about turning a blind eye to the worst infractions, ain’t it, _Knight-Captain_?”

For an instant, Cullen could barely see for the rage that surged through him. It took more willpower than he thought he had to choke it down, but somehow, miraculously, he managed. It was either that or lose control and lash out the way Raleigh wanted.

“I’m not going to let you derail this into an unrelated argument,” he retorted tightly, then turned away to continue moving to the other side of the desk.

He never made it. 

“And I’m not going to let you toss me back out onto the street.” Raleigh’s voice was a low growl, almost drowned out by the slick, metallic sound of his sword sliding from its scabbard.

Dumbfounded, hardly daring to believe what he’d just heard, Cullen turned back to face him. Raleigh stood there, balanced on the balls of his feet in preparation of attack, sword in hand and pointed directly at him. The look in his eyes was one that Cullen had seen many times in the sparring circle: focused, determined, and deadly serious. 

Cullen exhaled heavily, almost but not quite a bark of silent laughter. “You’ve got to be joking,” he muttered flatly.

“Do I look amused to you?” The cold edge to Raleigh’s voice was such a far cry from the smug warmth that had infused it when he’d walked into the office what now felt like an age ago.

In another situation with nearly any other man, Cullen would have responded to the threat more seriously than he was doing now. And he wasn’t exactly mocking it. He simply couldn’t believe that Raleigh actually meant what he was saying. They’d been comrades in arms for a long time. They’d fought together, guarded each other’s backs from blood mages, demons, and abominations. It had been Raleigh who’d been there in the darkness during Cullen’s first year in Kirkwall, talking him through the nightmares that had haunted his restless sleep after the fall of Ferelden’s Circle. Raleigh, who was always willing to lend a helping hand to his fellow templars, who treated the mages not only fairly but kindly, who destroyed his career to aid a friend, and who’d been such a help to the Champion that Hawke had petitioned Cullen to reinstate him in the Order. Addled by lyrium and desperate not to lose access to it though he might have been, he wasn’t the sort of man who would turn on his own.

“What are you going to do? Kill me?” Cullen asked in disbelief, then shook his head. “You truly believe that no one’s going to notice that I’m dead? Or eventually connect my death to you?”

A flat stare and a cold shrug was his answer. “Plenty of people want you dead.”

The urge to laugh constricted his chest and made the muscles in his mouth twitch. Cullen bit back the smile and forced the laughter down. “Most of them can’t get into the Gallows.”

“I’ll think of something.”

It was too much. The drawn sword. The cold, uncaring attitude. The sheer insanity of what wasn’t even a half-assed plan. Cullen had had a long day. The week prior had been just as trying. An argument, complete with insults and hurtful comments, was one thing. This absurd drama was beyond the pale.

“Put your sword away, Raleigh,” Cullen said in disgust, waving a dismissive hand at the weapon. Refusing to humor any of it any longer, he turned around. “This nonsense has gone on long enough.” 

“Don’t you turn your back on me!” Raleigh’s furious snarl reached his ears mid-step, forcing him to pause against his better judgment.

“For Andraste’s s—”

Candlelight caught the flat of the blade, flashing in the corner of his eye as it arched toward him. It was that infinitesimal flicker that saved his life. Lunging forward out of the majority of the sword’s reach, Cullen simultaneously twisted around, bringing up his arm to block the swing with his vambrace. The edge glanced off the metal, catching on one of the grooves etched into the armor’s surface. Stepping in on the follow-through, Raleigh swore under his breath, wrenching the sword free more viciously than necessary. And Cullen, already exhausted from his day and bewildered by this unexpected turn of events, was too slow to duck out of the way.

The sword’s point jerked upward and Cullen’s stomach twisted violently, a hot-cold wave of nausea that made him stumble into the corner of his desk as it washed over him. He dropped a hand to the desk, grabbing at the edge of it to regain his balance. The bitter, metallic tang of blood was on his tongue, ratcheting up the intensity of the nausea and making him shudder with the effort not to retch. Opening his mouth to spit out the blood, he was suddenly assailed with pain. Searing, agonizing pain that left him instinctively hunching his shoulders and lifting his other hand to hover uselessly over his mouth, near but not touching.

“Shit.” The quiet hiss drew his gaze despite the pain he still didn’t quite comprehend. Raleigh stood there, staring in wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock at Cullen as blood dripped from the point of the sword now hanging loosely in his hand, all but forgotten. “Cullen…”

Cullen blinked at him, inexplicably slow and sluggish. Raleigh had cut him, he knew. Badly. He could feel the blood running over his chin and down along his throat. It was pooling in his mouth, sitting on his tongue and trickling down his throat despite his best attempts not to swallow it. He wanted to spit it out, but when he tried, a jolt of pain stopped him before he managed to get his mouth open.

After moment’s heavy silence, Raleigh snapped out of his shocked daze, sheathed his sword, and spun toward the door. “I’ll get a healer.”

“Potion.” It hurt to speak, so he tried to keep the movement of his mouth to a minimum. It meant that the word came out a little garbled, but on the whole, it was intelligible.

Halfway to the door, Raleigh froze and glanced back to stare at him. “But—”

This time, once he’d marshaled the strength to repeat himself, the word was significantly more difficult to understand. “ _Potion._ ”

Despite his inability to enunciate, Raleigh evidently understood him well enough and, with a sharp nod, darted from the room. For what felt like hours, Cullen leaned against the desk and stared blankly at the door after it had closed behind him. He knew he ought to sit down. At the very least, he needed to find something to staunch the blood. But without knowing the damage, he didn’t want to press anything against the wound and risk making it worse. Or causing it to get infected. The Gallows weren’t exactly overflowing with mages anymore. It wasn’t like he could just call the nearest spirit healer into his office to fix him up.

And even if he could, he didn’t want to draw that kind of attention to what had happened. There would be questions. There would be an investigation. Raleigh had drawn his sword on his commanding officer without just cause. He had deliberately injured him. From a certain perspective, he had tried to kill him. The punishment for that would be far worse than what he would have received for stealing lyrium.

Eventually, after what felt like an extraordinary length of time and was in reality only a couple minutes, the shock started to wear off. As it faded, it took the strange lassitude with it and Cullen found that he could think more clearly. His face hurt more now than it had when he’d gotten cut, but he preferred the pain to standing there dumbly, waiting for Raleigh to return. If he returned. Perhaps he’d fled. Cullen wouldn’t be surprised to discover that was the case.

There wasn't a mirror nearby to visually survey the damage to his face. That would have to come later. For now, Cullen had to settle for removing his gauntlet and tentatively feeling around with his fingertips. There was so much blood that his fingers quickly became coated with it, but he was able to determine that the extent of the injury wasn't _terribly_ severe. It was a gash a few inches long that started beneath his cheekbone and continued downward to split his lip. Unwilling to prod too closely to figure out how deep the cut was, he contented himself with estimating that it went to the bone, at least where his lip was concerned.

A healer would be able to repair the damage completely, he knew. A few minutes of pain, a bit of blood to clean up and clothing to wash, and it would all be a memory. He wasn't going to be so lucky with a potion. It wouldn't knit the skin together as well as magic could. It wouldn't erase the possibility of scarring. But Cullen's sense of vanity wasn't so important to him that he would risk the life of one of his templars for it.

Because it wasn't Raleigh's fault. Not truly. What happened was ultimately the fault of the lyrium dependency they all struggled with and Cullen wasn't enough of a hypocrite to condemn the man for a moment of weakness. They all had them. The best anyone could hope for was not to hurt anyone during such an episode. That it had only been a fellow templar that had borne the brunt of this particular incident was fortunate. A minor miracle in a city that was in desperate need of more of them. 

The sound of approaching footsteps drew Cullen's attention away from his face and focused it on the door. A slew of explanations for what happened should the door open and reveal someone other than Raleigh on the other side gathered on his tongue, though some were admittedly more believable than others. But as luck would have it, he didn't have to lie his way through any awkward questions. It was Raleigh who slipped through the doorway and hurried shut the door behind him.

Once inside, he drew a small, glowing red bottle from where he'd tucked it in his sash, presumably to keep it concealed from curious eyes. Impulsive though he sometimes was, Raleigh wasn't stupid. He knew that there would be curious questions if someone saw him hurrying through the Gallows with a restorative potion in his hand.

"Here," he said, crossing the floor and pressing the bottle into Cullen's hand. After a brief hesitation, he added, "I'm—"

Cullen knew what was coming and waved his bloody free hand to forestall the apology. What was done had been done. Apologies would solve nothing.

Raleigh's mouth snapped shut, but there was a mutinous look of disagreement in his eyes as he watched Cullen pull the cork out of the bottle. He was just going to have to deal with it. Cullen didn't feel like going through the pain of arguing over it.

Carefully, knowing it was going to hurt like the blazes, he cracked open his mouth. As expected, the movement pulled at his torn skin. Unable to wince without doing more damage, he narrowed his eyes against the pain and brought the bottle gingerly to his lower lip.

"Sure you don't want a healer?" Raleigh asked doubtfully, absently shifting his weight as he eyed him. "It's going to scar like that."

That wasn't a revelation. Cullen didn't bother acknowledging it, though he did experience the slight urge to roll his eyes at such an obvious statement. Ignoring the other man for a moment, he slowly tipped his head back and eased the bottom of the bottle upward, letting the potion trickle into his mouth.

It was bitter, incredibly so, and tasted faintly of elfroot. Never overly pleasant in the best of circumstances, mixed with blood it tasted fouler than usual, yet Cullen dutifully swallowed it down. A faint tingle began to spread through his body, growing stronger as he consumed more of it. It was nothing like the effervescent thrill of lyrium, but at least it wasn't an unpleasant sensation. However, the same could not be said for the itch of mending flesh.

Finishing the last of the liquid, Cullen straightened and set the empty bottle down on the desk. He'd have to dispose of it later. Preferably when no one was watching. The itching quickly overshadowed the pain, but the cessation of blood flowing from the wound and the dull ache that replaced both the itch and the pain a moment later as the tingling faded more than made up for the momentary discomfort.

Cullen gave it another minute, then took an experimental breath through his mouth. The ache persisted, but the pain didn't return. When he touched a finger lightly to the spot a moment later, he felt a thick scab instead of rent skin and guessed that it now looked more like a week-old wound instead of a fresh one. As long it didn't split open again, it would suffice.

Movement drew his attention back to Raleigh and he watched with a faint prickle of unease as the older man drew his sword for the second time in less than an hour. The unease melted into irritation when, instead of leveling it at him again as Cullen half-expected, he flipped it, took hold of it by the blade, and offered the hilt to him.

Catching himself about to scowl at him, Cullen settled for drawn brows instead. "What are you doing?" Braced for a flare of pain, he was relieved when speaking only made the ache stronger.

"Presenting myself for arrest, ser."

The urge to scowl increased so dramatically Cullen had to clench his hand and dig his fingernails into his palm to prevent it. "Why?" he demanded, putting as much disapproval into that single word as he could.

"Because I—"

No, he decided. No, they weren't going to do this. As much as he didn't want to aggravate the partially healed wound with unnecessary conversation, he wanted to watch a good man suffer even less. He'd known, as he'd sat there alone in silence, waiting for Raleigh's return, that he wasn't going to let him take the blame for this. There were other ways to explain the injury; less honest, perhaps, and more personally embarrassing, but ultimately better.

"I slipped," Cullen interrupted him. At his blank, bewildered stare, he continued, making it up as he went along. "During the sparring session we just finished. I slipped on a flagstone and didn't block your strike properly. The error was mine." Now he did roll his eyes and let a note of sarcasm enter his voice. "A training mistake is hardly arrest-worthy."

Unafflicted by the same difficulty Cullen was having, Raleigh _could_ scowl. And he did so magnificently, looking nearly murderous with frustrated anger. "What the Void are you talking about? That's not—"

Cullen arched an eyebrow as condescendingly as he could before responding mildly, "Perhaps you suffered some mild head trauma yourself, since you don't remember."

“Cullen.” Raleigh’s voice was a warning growl.

Disinclined to heed it, Cullen pushed himself away from the desk and walked around to the other side. As he pulled out the chair to finally take a real seat, he glanced the other templar’s way. “I’ll handle writing the report tonight,” he told him casually, as if it was as inconsequential as requisitioning a new supply of buffing cloths.

Either he was getting tired of holding out the sword or he realized that he wasn’t going to be relieved of its weight. It didn’t need to be slammed into its scabbard the way it was, but Raleigh clearly needed something onto which he could harmlessly take out his anger.

“Cullen,” he doggedly tried again. Cullen was almost impressed by his persistence. “I'm—”

But not nearly impressed enough to let him finish.

“Dimissed, Samson,” he cut him off, using the formality of his surname to drive home the fact that this interview had reached its end.

The dismissal just made him bristle. “You can’t just—”

Being Knight-Captain, and now de facto leader of the Kirkwall garrison, meant that Cullen _could_ just do precisely what he was doing. All the talking was making his face start to actively hurt once more, and the irritation he felt over that served to make his voice that much colder when he gave up trying to be polite and resorted to issuing the dismissal as a command.

“You are dismissed, Samson.” The look he shot Raleigh was as icy as his voice. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

He could see the rebellion brewing beneath the surface, but this time, Raleigh wisely held his tongue. Snapping to attention, he saluted Cullen once, then turned and stormed from the room. It was only after the door had slammed shut in the wake of his departure that Cullen allowed himself the liberty of relaxing back into the chair, closing his eyes, and breathing a sigh of relief.

As far as long days went, this one had been the worst since Meredith’s untimely demise. There was still blood on the floor and no doubt some of it had dripped onto the desk while he’d been leaning against it for support. Before he left the office for his quarters, he would need to clean up the mess lest someone else stumble upon it. And Cullen would have to clean himself up before he set foot outside these four walls. But for the moment, just a short one, he was going to take a break. He rather thought he’d earned it.

*     *     *     *     *

It didn’t take very long for word of Cullen’s clumsiness to reach the far corners of the Gallows. Within a month, the story had mutated from the “official” version he’d given the day after the incident had occurred. The recruits—and all the other templars who falsely claimed innocence on the subject—who repeated the amusing anecdote amongst themselves felt compelled to add their own little embellishments wherever the narrative seemed lacked drama. Some versions were utter fanciful nonsense that included dragons or demons or in some cases, demonic dragons. Others were closer to the “truth.”

The most popular _believable_ version claimed that Cullen, after overseeing some battlemage training amongst the templars and handful of mages that qualified for the moniker, invited a fellow templar to aid him in a demonstration of a few of the more advanced techniques, and in the ensuing mock battle had slipped on an unfortunate patch of ice and took his opponent’s sword square in the face. The story was typically told amidst a round of drinks and a great deal of laughter, though in the defense of the chatty templars, the laughter was fond instead of mocking or sarcastic. Evidently the scar—true to Raleigh’s prediction, the wound did scar, rather dramatically so—somehow served to endear him to his subordinates.

“Makes you appear human, ser,” Ryley had told him with a shy smile, after he’d caught her repeating the story to a friend during a night out in a nearby tavern. “Like one of us.”

“Rather attractive, too,” the friend drunkenly added, much to both Ryley and Cullen’s embarrassment. Torn between blushing and laughing awkwardly, Cullen had ended up shaking his head and, to show Ryley that no harm had been done, bought the next round of drinks for the table.

Raleigh never did approve of Cullen’s decision to lie about what had happened and would occasionally bring it up whenever they argued. Owing to how stubborn they both were, arguments had a tendency to happen more than they didn’t. But thankfully lyrium—the mysterious disappearance of which remained unsolved—was never again the topic of those disagreements. Whether it was the fact that he’d been so far gone that he’d drawn a sword on his commanding officer or the reality of the scar he’d left behind on his face, Raleigh never touched the stuff outside of his daily ration. That kind of restraint wasn’t easy, Cullen sometimes saw hints of the strain the addiction put on him, but he was not the weak man he so often claimed to be and stood strong against temptation.

When Raleigh insisted that he didn’t deserve the protection Cullen gave him, Cullen responded with how proud he was of the changes the older templar had made to his life. And when Raleigh shot back with how much he disliked the disrespect he believed that the rumor-mongering did to Cullen’s reputation, Cullen shrugged it aside, unconcerned. He was a skilled fighter, one of the best in Kirkwall now. Anyone who doubted his strength and agility needed only to meet him once on the—now carefully deiced—training ground. His reputation didn’t suffer.

Even if it had, he would have deemed it an acceptable loss in pursuit of a worthy cause. The Order needed more people like Raleigh. A scar was a small price to pay to guarantee that it got to keep him. And it was a price that Cullen knew he would not come to regret paying. 


End file.
